


Imagine saying goodbye to Thorin as he leaves for the journey to retake Erebor

by forestofmyown



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, F/M, Foreshadowing, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, M/M, Other, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 08:08:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4052761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forestofmyown/pseuds/forestofmyown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Originally posted on tumblr:  http://imaginexhobbit.tumblr.com/post/72593177933/imagine-saying-goodbye-to-thorin-as-he-leaves-for</p>
    </blockquote>





	Imagine saying goodbye to Thorin as he leaves for the journey to retake Erebor

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr: http://imaginexhobbit.tumblr.com/post/72593177933/imagine-saying-goodbye-to-thorin-as-he-leaves-for

The ride up the hill is a familiar one. Even your horse knows it blindfolded by now, as many times as you’ve taken the trail up to the cliff’s edge. The friendly beast makes strait for the usual tree once the ground levels, and you dismount to tie her up.

He’s right where you expected him to be, standing in that way he does that makes him seem taller than any man, proud and regal and wise. He has the bearing of his birthright, the presence of royalty, despite many years in your backwater village as a lowly smithy.

Dwarven craftsmanship and talent has made your town prosper since the coming of Erebor’s refugees. The stout little people are a common sight after so long, and many consider them part of the community. The Dwarves themselves, however, do not, and you know it.

They may drink together with the men and women of the town, sing songs and tell stories and do business, but in every quiet moment, every glance towards the wilderness, you can see the emptiness, the longing, in their eyes. These are not men who have settled in. They are warriors fighting a hopeless battle, lost in a foreign land, waiting. Waiting for the chance to go home.

And that chance has come. The restlessness that they’d hidden for so long has recently bubbled to the surface, and word has gone around quickly that it is finally happening. The Dwarves are leaving.

Such gossip was met with laughter and disbelief at first. Most of your generation could not imagine life without Durin’s folk, you most of all. But you’d never laughed, and soon no one else could, either. They tried so hard to stop them going, to change their minds, but you didn’t. Because there was no use in it, and would have been insulting to try.

Of course they would go. Could no one else see the King standing at the smelter, dejected and suppressed, fierce as they come and dying for the degradation his people bare. They are not simple sword forgers and steel makers and grunts of the furnace; they are those who have lived under the splendor of the mountain and all its riches. It is an insult to them to presume they belong here, in straw-topped hovels and renovated barns and spare hay-beds. To ask them to stay is selfish.

So you don’t ask. Instead, you step up beside Thorin Oakenshield, the man who has never been anything less in your eyes than a King, whether covered in soot or shouting at you angrily or playing awkwardly with his nephews. No matter how close he is, there is always that knowledge that he is so high above you. Even in those moments where you can touch him, he is out of reach.

Just like a hundred other sunsets before this one, you stand together. With the blinding light of the dying day to your back, you can just make out the pinnacle on the horizon: The Lonely Mountain. You think of all the long nights spent here, lost in conversation, stories of his home, his life, his hopes and dreams and fears and wishes, and you smile sadly.

“Gandalf has arrived.” You inform him, voice soft, echoing the mood.

“You say that as though you were expecting him.” Thorin answers, eyes ever lost in the distance.

“I was indeed,” you chuckle. “Since that visit of his a few weeks back that sparked your fire again. He brought news. And hope.”

Thorin looks to you, appraising. “You knew we were leaving.”

“Everyone knows you’re leaving.”

“But you know why.”

You release a deep sigh, still trying to keep your gentle smile in place. “I know why.”

“You must tell no one.”

The laugh that bubbles up this time is real. “I won’t.”

His eyes dart between yours, trying to see more, see beneath.

“I want to go with you.” The whisper slips out, full of the longing you can’t hide.

His dismissal is stern. “You are no warrior.”

“I could be.”

He watches you for a moment. “Maybe. But this is not the journey to test such a thing.”

“I know.” He cocks his brow at your easy relent, and you shake your head. “I’m not asking to go. I would not be a burden to you, not with something this important.”

You won’t ask to go. You won’t ask him to stay. You won’t beg or plead or cling or hope or cry. He needs this. You would never deny him this chance.

Not even if it kills him.

“I want to see you.” The way his face darkens has color creeping into your cheeks. He knows there is so much more under that simple beginning than the direction your words take. “I want to see you on your throne, King Under the Mountain. Restored. Mighty Erebor, beautiful again. Durin’s folk, finally home. Will you show me? Someday?”

“And much more.” He jerks his head in one determined nod, eyes bright, and grabs your shoulder with an approving squeeze. “Till we meet again under the mountain, friend.”

There’s nothing to do but keep smiling and nod back as he moves away. And that’s it. That, you know, is your goodbye.

Goodbye to the one who taught you to work steel, to climb mountains, to value yourself and know you are worth more than what you seem, to take pride in what you do and who you are, to never settle for less and to make every moment work towards a greater goal. Goodbye to the man who has been most important in your life, who fills your days and haunts your nights. Goodbye to the one you’d barely dared hope would be your future.

It isn’t enough. But nothing ever will be.

You gaze out across the expanse, letting the wind whip through you loose hair as your eyes focus on that dark speck to the north. The air chills you, and the colors blur in your vision, but you can’t look away. If you try, you’ll turn to him, you won’t be able to help it. And you just can’t do it.

You can’t watch him walk away.

“Can I ask you a question?” It sounds deceptively casual, you voice. But your arms wrap themselves around you, as though to both comfort you and hold you together. The crunch of his steps pause. That’s permission enough, from him. “Did I ever really have a chance?”

The sun continues to sink at your back, the burning orange light engulfing the world and spreading a somber purple out across the range. You have to close your eyes against it. The action knocks a tear loose. It rolls quickly down your cheek.

The silence swirls with the breeze, gentle, but taunting. His deep voice is low and soft, but clear as crystal in your ears.

“… more than you know.”

Every muscle in your face tightens, pulls, in response to the wave that rushes through you. You dig your fingers into your arms, cutting into the skin, trying desperately to hold everything back. Just for a moment, just long enough.

When the sound of his footfalls finally fade away into the copper evening, everything breaks loose. A sobbing cry screeches out into the distance as you fall to your knees. Forehead pressed to the ground, body curled into a ball of despair, you grieve. For the loss of a friend, a king, a love that never was-

And the agonizing certainty that you’ll never see him again.


End file.
